Time
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Post-finale. Oneshot. My response to the prompt for Day Four of Chair Week. The third time and the second time all lead up to this: "What do you think, Henry? Your very first limo ride."


**Author's Note:** This is my response to the prompt for Day Four of Chair Week on tumblr, firsts.

* * *

The third time Blair stands in this exact spot, she taps her fingers against the granite counter of her bathroom vanity in nervous anticipation. Her chest feels tight and her stomach is doing flip-flops as she clicks the button of her phone and checks the timer once more. Time is passing slowly, and patience has never been her strong suit. She wants to know yes or no, wants to know how she should feel because this time – the third time in six years – she has no clue.

She moves away from the counter, takes a seat on the lip of the bathtub as a way to avoid her reflection. Her phone buzzes in hand, chimes as she receives yet another email from her mother demanding she deal with the backlog of orders for the B for Waldorf line that have piled up in her absence. She dismisses the email, files it away in her bursting inbox with a nervous sigh.

Blair pulls up the timer again, stares at the numbers as they slowly countdown. The knock at the door distracts her for just moment, causes her to jump slightly and glare at the intrusion.

"Miss Blair," Dorota bids through the closed door. "Is ev—"

"Go away, Dorota!"

She snaps, dismisses as the maid tries to ask her yet again what she is doing at her mother's penthouse. She had the deflected the question once before, made up some excuse about forgetting something in her old room. Maybe she should have done this at the Empire; maybe she should have done this somewhere else.

She stands, walks towards the vanity on shaky legs. The bobbing of her head, the paleness of her complexion reflects back in the mirror and catches her by surprise. Yes, they rarely left the room during their honeymoon, but surely her beautiful skin cannot look that sickly. She scrutinizes herself, realizes she has no idea how she wants this go.

The first time – God, that had been a disaster. She had stood in this spot and commanded herself to not be pregnant because a baby would ruin everything, would cost her Yale and her crown and her boyfriend and everything she had worked for. And then she had received her wish and still lost everything.

The second time —

She had stood in this spot and commanded herself to not be pregnant because a baby would ruin everything, would cost her crown and her fiancé and everything she had worked for. And then she hadn't received her wish, grappled with what that meant until she ended up in the back of a town car with everything that mattered and lost it all again.

She had stood in this spot only two weeks later, wetted a washcloth, and wiped away the monthly proof that her baby was really gone with tearstained cheeks. She had stood in this spot, picked up the phone, and begged her fiancé to take her away from here. She shuts her eyes at the reminder, commands herself to push down the emotions and the memories and –

The phone in her hand buzzes, rings as the timer finishes and the moment of truth approaches. This time – the third time – she has no commandment for herself, and she flips over the plastic stick with batted breath. And this time – the third time – she smiles for the first time when she reads the results.

* * *

The second time Blair stands in this exact spot, she shifts her weight from foot to foot ever so slightly as he moves his head and gazes at her with a hint of wariness on his face. They had fought so viciously last night, said things and verbally clawed at each other until they could barely stand to look at one another let alone speak. He didn't know whether to leave or stay, whether to press her against the wall and kiss her senseless or lay down his trump card. She made the decision for them, gathered her purse, and stormed out of the Empire without a backwards glance.

And now she is back, standing across the living room of their penthouse from him, and he doesn't know what to say because he doesn't know what they were fighting about in the first place. He waits and watches in baited breath, in a sure sign that she will have to be the one to speak first. She swallows her emotions, the lump of anxiety in her throat as she tries to muster the courage to speak.

"I need to talk to you."

"If this is going to be a repeat of last night," he begins.

She drops her voice until his name comes out in a low dismissal, effectively cutting him off from continuing his own dismissal. He turns his attention back to the glass of scotch in front of him, focuses on what he knows rather than what he does not understand.

"I'm pregnant."

His eyes snap back to her, watches her silently with a mouth agape. The torrent of emotions crashing over him leaves him speechless, leaves him rooted in this exact spot again. He turns his attention back to the scotch in front of him, flexes his fingers and curls them around the glass as though he is going to raise it to his lips and drown away the knowledge.

And then he pushes away the glass as he stands, as he turns to her with the childlike grin she hasn't seen in years. He's ambling towards her, gathering her up in his arms, and pressing fervent kisses against her temple and her jawline and her neck and – finally – her lips.

"A baby," Chuck whispers against her cheek in stunned amazement. She pulls her face away from his so she can study the expression on his face, stares at him as tears well up in her eyes and the question tumbles from her lips.

"You're happy?"

"Of course I'm happy. A baby? You and me and a family? It's all I've ever wanted, Blair," he reminds her as he tenderly caresses her cheek, as he wipes away the falling tear with his thumb. He eyes search hers, and then he knows because he knows her better than he knows himself. "Is that what the fight was about? You thought I didn't want this?"

"No," she quickly corrects before dropping her voice and silently confessing. "I just – this wasn't planned, Chuck. We've only been married for seven weeks."

"Maybe this is earlier than we expected but timing has never been our strong suit," Chuck reminds her as his hand slides from her waist to press against the place just above her pelvis bone through the folds of her dress. "A baby?"

He still sounds so stunned, almost as though he cannot believe this could ever happen. She smiles slightly, makes a joke about he surely knowing how babies are made. And then he wickedly suggests that maybe he needs a refresher course as his hand dips lower to cup her through the layers of her dress.

"Chuck," she moans as his fingers flex and press around her.

"Hmm," he growls against her ear. "Pregnant women are supposed to be more sensitive, and I've never had sex with a pregnant woman before."

"Never?" She gasps in his ear.

"No, Mrs. Bass," he concedes. "You'd be the first."

* * *

The first time Blair stands in this exact spot, she watches with tear-filled eyes as her prince speaks in a low, hushed voice and surveys their city, their empire with the newborn heir in his arms. His hands – his large hands – that carry her through pain and passion gingerly cradle their newborn's head. His fingers – his talented fingers – stroke the downy wisp of dark hair, finger soft cranial skin, and thumb tiny ears before his lips press against the tiny, puckered lips of their son.

"It's all yours, Henry," Chuck promises. "Everything I have is yours and your mother's."

The clattering of the wheelchair being rolled into the room interrupts the moment, pulls her and her husband's attention towards the women in salmon colored scrubs entering the room. She parks the wheelchair, smiles politely as she asks if the Basses are ready to depart.

Chuck eyes flash towards Blair's as hers do the same to his, and she pulls at the dress that covers the lumps and bumps of a body only two days postpartum in a nervous reply. The hospital is safe and sterile and filled with people who know exactly what they are doing. Chuck and Blair have never even held a baby before Henry, and the idea of leaving this safe place is more than mildly terrifying.

"Miss Blair, Mister Chuck," Dorota greets as she enters the room. She stops behind the wheelchair, holds up the top of the line infant car seat for them to see. "Limo waiting downstairs for you and Mister Henry."

Blair nods her head, watches as Dorota places the car seat on the rumpled sheets of her hospital bed. The maid steps aside, creates a space for Chuck and Blair to hoover over as he gingerly places the baby in the seat with immense care. Straps are buckled and checked by the nurse; cashmere blankets are tucked around the newborn's tiny body.

She sinks down into the wheelchair when the nurse says she cannot walk out of the hospital. She flinches when she sits, gasps audibly when her ass touches the seat. Paperwork is handed to her to hold when all she wants to do is hold her baby, and she watches with baited breath as Chuck gingerly lifts the car seat in preparation for their departure. And then she pushed out of the room, forced to lead the way as Chuck follows carrying Henry and Dorota follows carrying her overnight bags.

Arthur is waiting for them at the limo, assists Dorota in placing the bags in the trunk after opening the door to the back of the limo for them. The nurse holds the car seat as Chuck wraps his arm around Blair's waist and assists her into the limo through the other door. He presses his lips against her temple, whispers three words and eight letters in her ear before pulling away and shutting the door.

The car seat is guided into position through the other hand, latched into the base with an audible click. Henry stirs slightly, and Blair reaches out to stroke his plump cheeks with the back of her index finger. The little boy mewls, shifts towards the sensation as his father slides into the seat to him and shuts the door in anticipation of their departure.

The car pulls away from the curb as the little boy's eyes flutter open, as his parents watch in stunned amazement. Another hand, another finger reaches out to stroke his cheek, to marvel of the fact that he is here and he is a perfect mixture of the best parts of them.

"What do you think, Henry?" Blair coos softly. The baby shifts and stirs, moves against the straps holding him in place before his eyes flutter closed in a content sigh. "Your very first limo ride."


End file.
